


Of brooches and tacky shields

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Series: Of Objects and Letters [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, As in Moriarty, Brief SH nudity, F/M, Immortal Sherlock, Involuntary Frottage, M/M, Medieval Fair, Minor Character Death, POV Multiple, Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Reichenbach Fall - Slight AU, Sherlock Wearing A Sheet, Sherlock dies temporarily, Time Traveler John, series fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s an inkling inside his subconscious that’s screaming at him to turn back, and kick John Watson out of his life; holding regard for another breakable being is a lost cause, and he’s not up for taking chances where he sees defeat. Sentiment, after all, is a chemical defect found on the losing side.</p><p>Or</p><p>A prompt from Pinterest about a unique relationship between a Time Traveler and Immortal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Foodmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foodmoon/gifts).



> Okay, for anybody who's read this before, the plot is generally the same. What changed, however, is the character voice (and the more than a bit of the plot, but they're minor enough to not cause any major changes, per se), so if you're interested in how they see things in their world, I would highly recommend it. Other than that, please enjoy. Once again, thank you Foodmoon for your helpful commentary, this is for you.

**I**

 

Flickering colours that makes his head spin, swirl behind his eyelids. Focus. He turns his head in an attempt to defy their trajectory, and prevent himself migraine; does he have to go through this every. single. time? I said:  _ focus _ . His stomach is beyond the realm of fine; anymore will make him hurl. If only his journeys through time ceases to feel like being stuck inside a bloody blender, it’s preferable. Thank you. 

 

He can feel it now, the solidness of the ground beneath his feet, the burn of generic mint on his nose hairs; the faint humming sound of some contraption that he can’t quite locate. He sighs, clutching at a few strands of his forelocks. What he can give to stop feeling like a damn alien inside his own body.

 

But wait; no breeze on his hidden bits, no tribal connection with nature and its creatures.  Ahh, yes, clothes. He’s finally wearing clothes again! He hugs the materials to his torso like second skin. Forget going commando (Hah! - the lads always mention that he has a crude sense of humor), clothes are definitely the best inventions next to a good cup of tea, that’s for sure. Another sigh escapes his lips. Right then, that’s enough with taking shots at his current age; he’ll only make himself all the more self-conscious when he eventually looks into a mirror.

 

Alright then, next question: where exactly is he? Surely he’s not in some kind of prison cell or something, right? It’s not like he ever has gone through the endeavour; imagining it now doesn’t sound at all appealing. He probably will not even get decent food that’s worth more than a pound; there’s even little to no guarantee that he even _ gets _ food. He’ll starve! This is why he supports liberalism; power to the people and all that queer notions.

 

No, hold on; why is he thinking about these things now? He was shot just a second ago, wasn’t he? He yanks on the collar of his attire (god, he’s gotta get more of these things, they are surprisingly comfortable), and yep, there’s a bullet wound, but it’s more like a sliver of dead skin, and can easily be mistaken for a birthmark or something; he’s a bloody doctor, of course he’s always right. Hah! He’s a fucking joke book; he literally drowns in the stuff.

 

“You could have me arrested.” He hears a voice coming from the other side of the door he stands in front of. What’s this? Is some sort of filming happening? Is every day conversations at this time suppose to sound so... dramatic? “You could torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s going to stop them from pulling the trigger. Unless,” Yep, see what he means?

 

“....Unless I kill myself -” Familiar goosebumps rises to his arm, his footing tilts on one end (Whoa there! He doesn’t want to kiss horse's hoof again). “- complete your story.” That voice. No. It can’t be...can it? There’s literally no chance for this to happen. The only way is for Sherlock to be a time traveler himself, or..maybe...some sort of vampire or something (if those exists in some form - ‘ _ Vampires, John, really? _ ’ Holmes will scold him if he hears half of the stuff he thinks about). Wait, hold on, let’s not get hasty; he still technically doesn’t even know whether the other person is his friend, or just somebody who sounds a hell-a-lot like him enough to give John the heebie jeebies. He refuses to think of this as fate (because hoping will only serve to fuel how hard it will be for him when he does leave); he is literally the only one of his kind; at least as far as he knows. Is he mistaken? Some sort of sick joke, maybe? It’s either that, or he’s just born with the worst of luck, and he somehow misses other people like him during every single era he goes to (not like it’s a first or anything; maybe he’s just really bad at searching like Holmes always claims).

 

He pays attention to his hearing again, pressing his ears on the door with rust eating at the paint.

 

“You’re me.” His heart stutters by the sound; he feels a sickening punch to his throat. “Thank you.” Dear god, his peripherals is spinning in the edges..  _ I’ll burn... the heart out of you. _ His breathing staggers. “Sherlock Holmes.”  _ I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one…..that I don’t have one….that I don’t  _ **_have_ ** _ one… _  The voices intermingles in his ears, clawing to the top for recognition, for domination. Stop it. This is neither the right time nor place for that. He clutches at his ears to keep the ringing from the echoing gun shot in his ear; the aching burn on his shoulder.

 

“Thank you.” The voice speaks again whilst his ears are still hearing screeches from indistinct wailing. “Bless you.”  John grits his teeth; there is no way for him to take action without catching the attention of both parties (as far as he’s aware); waiting will have to do for now. “As long as I’m alive, you can save your loved ones; you’ve got a way out.”

 

The wails increases in an indescribable frequency, nearly to the point of shattering his ear drums. He bites at the forearm of his dominant arm to keep himself from making a peep; he feels distinct punctures from the front of his teeth, as well as the canine ones, drawing out tiny wells of blood.

 

“Well, good luck with that.”

 

Within seconds he hears a gunshot. He doesn’t hesitate to take action; twisting the door open, he immediately throws himself towards the other end. Sherlock, you better be okay, goddamn it, or I will butcher you myself.

 

The first thing he sees is a body; his fear of discovering his friend’s lifeless form is what’s currently prevents him from moving an inch from the spot. One look at the other figure, and he knows Sherlock isn’t this..this..derange psychopath (if the soulless, beady eyes and manic grin isn’t telling enough) who smiles at death with blood trailing down from the back of his head...right? Fuck, he doesn’t even know anymore; there’s too much blood, and already he’s seeing a trail of bodies in their regulation uniforms, all the life stolen from their eyes; red seeping onto the never-ending grains of sand. His hands twitch to prevent himself from checking the pulse.  _ WATSON! _ He tries to keep his shaking to a minimum, and try his best to process the events prior. The next thing he sees is the gun that is loosely on the bloke’s palm (because how can he not? Holmes might scold him if he so much as miss that); suicide? Why kill himself? Something’s not adding up.

 

He barely realizes when a figure (Sherlock)’s already standing by the ledge, all lithe and gallant; tall-frame, and pale skin encase in an expensive, dark coat. The curls is quite a big surprise though, remembering how Holmes religiously applies a hefty amount of slick in his hair on a regular basis; not that the change is at all unattractive; he still resembles the Holmes he keeps from his memory alone. He barely realizes that he’s smiling wide enough to split his face in half until he feels the strain of the muscles that holds it. Get a hold of yourself, you soft ninny, it’s just your friend; no need for too much excitement.

 

“Hold that thought.” He half-bellows, raising a cautious hand out; disregarding the fallen body, and heading towards the man. Even at their reunion, Holmes is just as much of a madman even if it’s nearly - he stares at his watch to clarify the specific year - two centuries since he’s last seen him. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Steady Watson; take baby steps if you’re just going to lose your footing like a newborn babe. 

 

The other man turns his head to study him, study John inquisitively. Sherlock’s eyes still remains the same; mirroring the sky, with a hint of green in them and a sliver of gold. God, how can he still look so timeless in every generation? Wait, he’s crying. Why’s he crying? His own expression drops automatically.

 

“You wouldn’t understand.” Sherlock’s bravado trembles in that moment. It doesn’t take a Scotland Yard boffin to realize that something’s wrong. “I’m a fake.” How could he say this? From what he can recall, Sherlock was - is always a brilliant man; reincarnations aside, he firmly believes this one no doubt conforms to that pattern. 

 

Why is he being like this, anyway? Who is that dead man whose body is growing cold by the minute? He rakes a hand through his scalp in quiet agitation; the blood thrumming in his ears. Speak goddammit! You are no liar, Holmes; you seldom are; not for the stuff that matters, anyway.

 

“Oi, stop it now -” Alright. It seems that he’s hiding things again. Either way, he just needs to take another careful step. “Stay exactly where you are!” There’s a faint stirring of what sounds like frustration in his friend’s tone.

 

“Yeah, alright.” He holds both his hands up; remaining still.

 

“Don’t move!” Holmes orders again; facing him; smiling forlornly; hands spread out wide in the air. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.” John grits his teeth, acquiescing. Don’t do this, he wants to say; I can help you with whatever it is that you’re trying to fulfill, just please don’t jump. “Please, will you do this for me?”

 

He nods unconsciously, swallowing. All he needs is a chance to make a move; just a split second, and he will take his best bet.

 

Holmes’ smile widens; his body inching backwards from where he’s facing. No; he can’t still want this.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John’s heart thrums, avoiding the pretense of following orders; reaching a hand in an attempt to possibly catch a limb. The sickening crunch comes before he can identify its source. That’s when his whole world stops, the wails of sirens, and taxi cabs akin to white noise. Oh god, the body. He covers his face with his hands, in an attempt to subside his shaking. No matter what, he can’t fucking look away from between the gaps of his fingers, no matter how much he wants to. Oh god, Sherlock. Tears, tears are what came next, that and some sort of choking noise in the background; wait.. there’s nobody else here apart from him; one glance at the very dead man behind him confirms his theory. If that’s true, then… the noise, the one that’s steadily growing hoarse, that’s him, isn’t it? Oh god, it  _ is _ him. 

 

His whole frame begins shaking, noticing the immediate splatter of blood that surrounds the man’s head. He felt nausea caress his throat, whilst he’s trying to breathe; it’s counterintuitive. There’s screaming first (or is it the next thing?; he can’t tell), and then he sees the body navigating inside what he now recognizes as presently Bart’s hospital. Looking at it now, the scene itself appears to be more like a tableaux, and he’s a spectator behind glass.

 

Sod this, sod it all.  He immediately sets of on a run; heading aimlessly through pale, non-distinguishable hallways, pass anyone wearing variations of green, blue, and teal; his heart beating out of his ribcage in terror. Down, the first thing he needs to do is get down. It’s the only thing that makes sense in his head; he needs to get down.  Never mind the pedestrians, or people who work there; what he needs to do is get to Sherlock. Get to Sherlock, and...what? Check his pulse? Why are you deluding yourself, Watson? The man is clearly dead; you saw him jump; there’s no parachute, there’s no large cushion to ease his landing; he’s definitely dead. He shakes his head; focus Watson, damn you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know why you need to see him, just go or you’ll fucking hate yourself for at least not checking.

 

In his haste, he manages to make it down just when the gurney that contains Sherlock’s body navigates into the morgue. It’s then that realization fully strikes him: his friend is definitely dead. What’s the point in even having to stay here? To mourn for a man that might not even know John to the extent that the other knows him? He’s really so damn pathetic, being unable to let go.

 

He barely realizes it when he reaches for a random lab coat that’s left in a communal coat hook by the side of the door. It’s like his whole body is in some sort of trance, or auto-pilot; pasting on a smile as he sets off to where a couple of nurses and doctors were beginning to gather. He doesn’t even have any idea as to what he’s even speaking about; the terminology, and the knowledge are just spewing out of his mouth faster than he can comprehend. He vaguely wonders how people are creating dramatizations about doctors who happens to be off-set assassins; he’s no better.

 

Sans blood, Sherlock’s only left in the nude; save for the blanket that reaches up to his torso. His eyes are shut, and his lips is close. If John is to turn away from the angry red bruise on the side of his head, the first conclusion is that he’s asleep. What remains blatant, however, is the sickly pallor that remains on the bloke’s skin. Sherlock’s always pale (mostly because he forgets to take care of himself - though that’s what part his of his purpose is for - to feed him up), but blueish skin is more rigor mortis than malnourishment.

 

Shaking his head, he immediately sets off to stroking the man’s cheeks; the definition of his facial structure; those pointy, cupid’s bow lips. He vaguely realizes how intrusive this must be for the madman; how intimate his touches were. But then again, he’s dead, and he very likely will not even feel a thing.  He can almost cherish this moment if the fading warmth deems unnoticeable, however sickening the type of thinking might be.

 

“Why do you never let me help?” He gruffs, snatching his hands away as if it’s just on the verge of burning skin. “You always do this kind of screwed up things by your own volition without going to me. Don’t I mean anything at all to you?” He knows it’s ludicrous, speaking to a dead man (a dead man who probably is not aware of who he even is). In his defense, this is probably the only moment he can ever gets close enough to the bloke to properly scold him without having a door to his face.

 

“You’re not Mike.” His skin crawls, in realization that someone already knows of his infiltration. He turns his head to identify the person, and sees a woman with caramel hair and brown eyes studying him questioningly. As much as attraction goes, she’s very pretty; cute upper lip, small nose. What keeps him in-line, however, is his friend’s body resting on a slab. “Why are you wearing his coat?”

 

“Er...well..” He chews on his lower lip, side-eyeing the body in front of him.

 

She follows his gaze, and gasps.

 

“Are you Sherlock’s friend, then?” She inquires curiously.

 

John smirks; if only.

 

“You could say that.” Then he realizes. “You call him Sherlock. Was he your mate?”

 

Her skin turns cherry, gaze drifting downwards.

 

“N-Nothing like that.” She chirps, shy. He inwardly growls: this is not the right time for feeling any remote attraction for the mildly attractive lady such as herself. The fact that he’s grieving is making him all loopy - this has got to stop. “I’d like to think of us as friends, but I think he just uses me to gain access to the cadavers.” She jumps simultaneously after she says this. “N-Not that he gets off on it, or anything, I-I mean.. I know he needs to harvest their organs from time-to-time but - Oops, I, uhh, I didn’t mean it like that.” She takes in a large gulp of air. “I’m M-Molly, by the way. How about we start there, hmm? Molly Hooper, and you are?”

 

John smiles politely, offering a hand, which she immediately pumps before pulling away.

 

“And I’m -”

 

That’s when he hears it, the sound of bones cracking, and ligaments re-aligning. What the hell!?

 

His eyes immediately goes towards pale feet that starts wiggling. What...what is happening? A trick of the light? Surely he must be seeing things if Sherlock’s moving, even after death. An instruments of sorts? Electrical charge? Anything can be possible.

 

“Oh, goodness.” Molly gasps, retrieving a large white bag full of clothes. Wait, does she notice that it’s happening too? “I’m running a bit late. Would you help me with this, please?”

 

John jumps to comply, unfolding the familiar-looking fabric from beneath his fingertips. Just by the sight of this, he knows that it costs a fortune.

 

“Wait, isn’t this -”

 

“Obvious.” Says the body, who’s currently busying himself with wrapping bed sheets on himself. “Now isn’t this quite the turn of events.” Holmes stands right by him, impenetrable gaze raking shamelessly over his figure, pearly white teeth shaping to mischievous smile that glitters under the artificial light. “Hello again.”

 

John yells, landing somewhere in the linoleum, and sliding back away in the style of a young pup. 

 

“You-You.” He stutters, pointing accusingly at the man. There’s no way for this man to be alive at all; how can this be? He’s dead! “You’re dead.” Why is he not freaking out too much about this? It’s unnatural, it’s absurd; the very idea of instant revival isn’t possible. Unless, somehow, this bloke faked own his death for reasons unknown to him. Happy? Why is he happy that his friend (?) just toys with death as though it’s some sort of game to cheat on...who? Case in point; he’s definitely going bonkers now, isn’t he?

 

“Well, a bit rude, don’t you think?” Sherlock states, sliding the sheets away to nothing but stark pale skin, and bony yet firm angles. Molly shrieks, turning herself so that she is facing the only door available, and running blindly towards it. The man  _ clearly _ knows no shame (or he’s dense to the extreme), if he’s willing to do that just in front of anybody. Though he can’t say for sure, seeing as she’s quite aware of the situation already. “I’m just going to go...uhhhhh… get some coff-coffee.”

 

“Black, two sugars, please.” Sherlock calls out, frowning when she doesn’t stop to reply. Yes, definitely dense. Or, he can just potentially be a pervert; he shivers at having to imagine his friend to be in such a state.  _ Details, Watson; remember, the details _ . Well...maybe not.

 

“For god’s sake.” John uses his whole hand to fully cover his face. His skin is warm at the contact. By god, it’s annoying that this apparently has some sort of adverse affect on him. “Could you put something on, please? The sheet would suffice.” Premature heart attacks are not common, but they still do occur as far as he knows.

 

Somehow the eyeroll is a given, even behind a makeshift shield.

 

“Oh, do relax, Doctor.” Sherlock replies from somewhere around the corner. Wait, Doctor? Holmes hardly uses his education as a form of referral basis; only when Holmes is introducing him to either a client, or some colleague that John is yet to meet. “When you’ve lived as long as I; modesty and dignity are the first to go.”

 

“Well, you couldn’t be any older than me -”At least that’s what he thinks; this Sherlock looks to be in no more than his thirties. Though he’s not quite too sure about it now. He glues the fingers back, noting that Sherlock’s already sliding onto a pair of tailored trousers. “How did you know I was a doctor?”

 

“Soldier too, now that I get a better look.” There’s more shuffling. Second impression, maybe? Holmes is already aware of his profession right from his previous deduction, so why reiterate? He hates those, doesn’t he? Somehow irritation is bubbling on the surface of his consciousness.“You’re free to gander now, sir.”

 

John sighs, watching the Sherlock pop the last button of his coat to a close. The bloke then refocuses his attention back on him.

 

“You died; you jumped off the roof, it was definitely you.” He starts, approaching. Something smells fishy. The bruising on the side of the head is nonexistent now that he has a better look. No amount of cosmetology in the world is fast enough to pull that off, even with just a few minutes, and look realistic. What’s going on? Is this the Holmes he has come to know, or he this just another version of him? One who’s apparently able to avoid death; he’s such an idiot.

 

“Yesssss.” Sherlock stretches his joints further, and eliciting more cracks. He tries to keep his winces to a minimum. He has no idea what to say about it, really. “And now I’m alive; neat, don’t you think?”

 

John curls his lips inwards.

 

“You aren’t going to tell me how you jumped off the building and survive.”

 

“Judging by your tone, you sound surprised by the fact.” He goes towards a reflective object, ruffling his hair to an even larger mess and winking at John’s reflection when he makes eye-contact with it. Why does he have the largest impulse to punch this man on the nose, and actually enjoy it? “I believe we hadn’t gotten that far into the relationship to allow ourselves the indulgence of one’s own secrets. It would be entirely hypocritical to ask for them, seeing as you’ve got a fair amount of your own.”

 

“Wait, what do you mean by relation -” Disregarding his said hypocrisy, what shocks him to no end is that no matter how much this Sherlock may talk, and look similar to the Holmes he knew, he’s never felt this distant with the other man in his life.

 

Sherlock frowns, yanking on the wristwatch he wore, studying it on every angle.  _ Oh, you know who _ , his own voice mocks him in the background.

 

“I’d never cop you to be the one for vintage watches; are you perhaps a collector?” Sherlock hums, flicking the watch open, only to close it, then repeat. “I don’t believe I’ve seen a Cortèbert like this ever since the 1900’s. Where did you get this?” His own expression shutters, in an attempt to hide whatever contortion his face is making. He’s not in the mood for this. By god, he truly is an idiot to believe such ludicrous fantasy.

 

He yanks his hand away, clutching at his watch protectively.

 

“It was a present.” He reprimands before remembering to prevent himself from adding in:  From you. “Now if you wouldn’t mind telling who was that bloke in the rooftop, and how you survived that fall; it would be helpful.” So that I can finally move on from losing you twice, and grieve for real this time.

 

Stopping in front of him, Sherlock smirks sardonically, wiggling a finger.

 

“Oh nonono, Doctor. I’ve no reason to provide you with any answers. This is the first time we’ve officially met, is it not?” There is a distinct hollowness to his tone that John can’t quite decipher. Nonetheless, he’s leaving, and that’s that.

 

In that moment, he prepares himself to leave the subject altogether, abandoning the building, abandoning London (and yes, if the accents aren’t telling enough, all he knows is that he’s somewhere in London), and forgetting this whole experience altogether to start anew.

 

“Actually I really should get goi-” He begins to take a step back. This is for the best, he decides.

 

To his surprise, Sherlock snaps out of his observation, and turns to approach Molly who carries two steaming mugs.

  
  


“I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee, so I just left it plain, that alright?” She squeaks, refusing to meet eyes with Sherlock who happily sips at his own brew, and handing the other cup to John. Poor girl; it’s probably for the best, maybe.

  
  


“Uh, thanks.” He sniffs, imagining the blend to be similar to the one he usually drinks. He takes a sip, finding the different layers of dark undertones that washes towards his palate. This tastes surprisingly better than he initially anticipates for hospital coffee; thank god for the never-ending research in all things food. “Oh, here you go.” He hands her a few bills that appears spontaneously (almost magically) from inside the pocket of his trousers. “I’m lacking in change at the moment, but I’ll get back to you when I’m properly settled at a place.” Which is not a legitimate lie per se, but it’s definitely smoother than having to explain why he’s only somehow realizing that he has cash in his pockets.

  
  


Molly frowns, confusion clouding over her countenance. Is the coffee that expensive?

 

“Oh, you don’t need to.” She hands back the small stack without looking at it. “I just got that from the staff lounge; no need to pay me, it’s free. I was already on my way there anyway, no biggies.”

 

John in turn mimics the expression, but he does attempt to school his features noting Sherlock’s presence, and his constant observation over the interaction. Even in another form, this incarnation of his friend is quite an avid observer; his presence alone brings forth reminiscence of thrill and security; he must remember to be wary of this man; this Sherlock Holmes is perhaps the most dangerous person he will ever meet. John inwardly sighs on the familiar shiver of goosebumps on his skin. He must really be a complete lunatic to ever find contentment in the very idea of it.

  
  


“I think it’s about time for us to get going, don’t you think?” And he’s already heading towards the doors, coat flapping from behind. So, what? He’s suppose to tag along now? No, thank you. As far as fascination goes, John himself is a singular man. Although he craves the need for the hot rush of blood singing underneath his skin, he is nobody’s lapdog; yeah right (apart from one, more-like). When he does finally muster a way to make himself repeat the mantra, the sooner he can finally begin moving on, and escape from this godforsaken rut; to prevent himself from ever grieving in more than one era for a ghost of a man.

  
  


He takes one lasting sip; lying to himself is never really a forte of his; the temptation to run after the other man winding around his legs, and the rapid thumping of his heart.

  
  


“I think he wanted you to follow him.” Molly pipes in with a polite smile. Yeah, thanks; he’s quite aware of the decisions available to him, thank you. It appears that Sherlock is not the only perceptive one around. “He can get creative when it comes to luring people in.”

 

John chuckles throatily, trapping his bottom lip between two fingers. Yes, he knows the feelings a little too well. God, longing burns.

 

“Spoken from experience?” He scratches at his scalp, not really knowing how to imagine Holmes ever taking any interest on something banal as relationships. He makes it his mission to cultivate the mind, and master emotions; relationships itself is a ravaging beast in sheep’s clothing; completely fall without testing the waters, and suddenly you’re blind to all sorts of deception, apparently. He wraps a hand on the opposite elbow, soothing at the dull ache of old wounds; Mary. “Come to think of it, I’m Watson.” He idly chastises himself for forgetting his manners. “John.”

 

Molly blushes a nice pink. It’s quite a complementary shade on her.

  
  


“It’s nice to meet -”

  
  


The wooden doors open in a large clatter. He chastises himself for feeling like a goddamn puppy when he catches sight of Holmes quickly narrowing his attention on him.

 

“Pardon my manners, but I was sure that I requested for Doctor Watson’s accompaniment.” Sherlock’s cheeks develops spots of red, a clear indication of his run on the way back after realizing that John is not by his side. He refuses to allow the scintillating hope that’s already blooming on his chest to flourish any further, of course, he’s never really a master of his own body when it comes to emotions; he just feels what he feels; it’s that simple.

 

“I never agreed to anything.” He sips at his cup in an attempt to keep a facade of indifference. He can make men taller than him squirm; Sherlock is not an exception.  Molly appears to take his lead in stride; giggling behind her hand. At least one of them is laughing; John himself is an impenetrable fortress. He snorts before speaking, damn. “And for the record, why should I follow you when you weren’t planning to tell me anything in the first place?” Apparently this version of Holmes inhabits an ever-expanding ego the size of an island. Not that Holmes is  _ as _ rude (his Holmes is more dry wit and wry humour, whilst this one is a huge cock), but something about this version of his friend just grates on his nerves. More than usual. “What? You’re going to be an open-book now?” Though he highly doubts it.

  
  


Sherlock doesn’t bother uttering a word in reply, just grabs the forgotten brew from his fingers and placing it on the nearest table; yanking him by the arm exactly like how his friend does when he’s particularly stubborn. How bold of him; attempting to reign a commanding officer of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. 

  
  


“Now hold on just a goddamn minute! Where the hell are you taking me?” He squawks, trying to regain the feeling back in his arm; is there some sort of underlying muscle underneath skin and bones? But Sherlock refuses to budge at all, his face stern and void of any emotion. Stopping near glass doors, he relinquishes the grip with a slap of the hand; a faint stinging on his skin from the contact that promises a nice bruising surprise soon enough.  “If you think you can -”

  
  


In a flash, he finds himself stuck in a corner, a hand clamping tightly on his mouth.

 

He can hardly see Sherlock, see his expression; all he can formulate is the sinister chasm of no return. The dark does nothing to hide the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes, the way the pupils are blown wide enough to compliment the silver sharpness that were the man’s eyes. His blood runs cold, idly sensing the crackle of dissonance in his perception of the detective (assuming that he still works with the police); whether it’s the lighting itself or not, he can’t help but sense the switch in his own breathing; the way it’s shallower than before, with his heart beating in turbulent pulses.

  
  


“Say another word, and nobody would find your body.” Sherlock rasps by John’s ear, his grip noticeably strengthening. “Understand?” He’s trying to think of a clever retort, but the lack of oxygen in his head prevents him from doing so. The slimy bastard. He’d wring his neck if he has enough brain cells working, rather than dying off.

  
  


His heart kicks up to high gear. Whatever’s happening at the moment, his inner soldier refuses to back down at the challenge; looking for the closest opening, he forces his own muscles to relax; to allow for Sherlock to slowly remove his hold. He then uses the momentary distraction to throw a jab at the bloke’s pressure point on his upper arm to get him growling and provide an opening for John to escape through.

 

Surprisingly, his opponent praises him for the shortcoming on Sherlock’s part, and the fact that he must remember to polish up on his skills when he gets the time. Which is ludicrous in every sense of the word; what any sane man compliments their opponent in the middle of battle?

 

“Either way,” A knowing smirk graces the bloke’s lips. Wrong wrong  **wrong** . The whole expression is wrong! Only Holmes’ collective enemies receive that feral smile that can disarm, as well as cause harm to the other person, but not once where he’s the main target. The realization is daunting. He might never escape the detective’s line of vision without some sort of infliction to commemorate the day, heck, he even has an angry red hand-print on his right arm to prove it. “I always get what I want.” The refusal is tempting, if it’s any less true. Suffice to say, this is the first time in their reunion in which they have mutual agreement. Damn.

 

Quick on his toes, he makes a break for it. Or at least tries to; seeing his legs disappear from beneath him in front of his very eyes. It’s around the same time that Sherlock manages to leap from his position, and snag his long limbs around John’s body in vice-like grip; the crook of his harm pressing precisely on John’s jugulars. And that’s when someone screams.

 

Turning his eyes towards the source of the sound, he reaches for open air.  _ Help, _ he wishes to say, but Sherlock’s less lenient this time.  _ Help.  _ The corners of his visions is beginning to blur, and his head’s spinning. Why weren’t there anybody helping him? Can’t they see that he’s the one lacking oxygen to keep himself up? Can’t they see he’s the one on the verge of passing out?

 

“.....help” he gurgles; attempting to scratch the bloke’s skin raw, but failing due to the barrier of sleeve, and most of his energy leaving him prior. The bloody coat; if it isn’t anymore expensive, he will not hesitate to rip the ruddy thing to shreds (in a fit of rage, with more energy than that of a small mouse). This death is not the that one initially plans for (nor is any murder, ironically). Not when it was left in hands of a person who looks exactly like his best friend. Or maybe it is; he can’t really think about much at the moment. 

 

His consciousness drifts the moment his eyelids close. Sherlock Holmes: truly the most lethal being that John will ever encounter in a lifetime.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


The next time he wakes is when he first realizes that something heavy is laying on top of him. He doesn’t think anything of it at the time, basking in the warmth and closeness he feels; the intimacy and the familiarity of being around another being. And that’s when it hits him: Someone - Sherlock is currently straddling him in his sleep.

 

He opens his mouth in an attempt to scream, recalling the previous events that connects to this rather compromising position; only to come out as a grating, raw sound that indicates straining of the vocal chords. Sherlock’s massive hand is back to preventing muffles from escaping his lips. At this point, he wonders why there isn’t anything practical to actually cover his mouth. Which gives him an idea.

 

“Nice nap, I take it?” The curly-hair bastard’s eyes are twinkling in amusement.

 

He takes a nice bite out of the finger, not caring in the least whether he tastes metal in his mouth. It tastes gross, and frankly acidic, but he can’t find himself to care if doing so can give him just the right amount of opening. He spits the acrid tang to the ground, wiping his mouth with a back of his hand.

 

Sherlock grits his teeth to probably internalize his screaming; pulling his hand away from site. Perfect.

 

Making use of what can possibly be his only opportunity, he pushes Sherlock from his position, and reaches out towards the closest door. Apparently he too needs some polishing on his evasion tactics,  realizing that he is abruptly kissing the door with his lips as well as his front teeth; both his hands twisting forcefully onto his back with Sherlock’s careful ministrations.

 

In the middle of adrenaline pumping his veins; the rapid beating of his pulse, he feels something- nose? lips? teasing at his throat.

 

“What are you doing?” He barely manages to ask along with an involuntary gasp.

 

“Judging by your scent, I presume you’re already partly aware of what’s happening.” Faster than he can blink, there’s suddenly nibbling, and licking, and some sort of suction happening that is privy to him. His eyes inadvertently drifts shut. Even if it’s a long while ago, lovemaking in itself is something of a hobby of John’s; not that he’s willing to admit that outloud.

 

_ Stop! _ His mind screams.  _ Stop this! _ The voices in his head banishes in a flash the moment his front meets wood. At that time, all he cares about is getting his proper release; a shameful groan escaping his throat. FUCK! Abort! Abort! This is not suppose to feel good! He’s just tricking you! He barely realizes it when Sherlock turns him around to nibble at his collarbone whilst sliding a palm underneath his clothing, brushing on warm skin. Hot. His internal temperature is no doubt rising. What in the god’s name is he wearing to cause him this much distress? Might as well be a bloody coat for the whole of winter if this keeps up.

 

“Clothes…” He pants, leaning towards the other body and smothering his face towards the pale neck. Dear god, his sweat is soaking through the fabric. “Need ‘em.. need ‘em off!” He can barely recognize his own voice, thick with need and want. He takes back what he finds ideal earlier: clothes are a hindrance, and they are of no convenience to mankind than to serve as a function to hide public indecency.

 

“No foreplays?” Sherlock whispers sinfully towards his ear; tracing over a spot on his neck that gets him involuntarily whimpering. Oh, this man is good. “Soldiers.” He remarks snidely, diving towards a corner of John’s mouth. His skin is tingling underneath the bloke’s every touch. “Always the commanding type.” But he does begin popping the buttons of John’s trousers; teasing at the cloth that covers his sex, but never once reaching inside; instead he slides his hand smoothly down the girth. He can barely muffle a moan, chewing on his lower lip. 

 

Hastily, Sherlock sets off to work: alternating between pumping up and down his frenulum and pressing at the head. He vaguely realizes that he’s screaming for release until the movements get faster; his breathing shallow. Dear lord, those hands are magic.

 

“I-I’m going to -” His eyes open to look at the other man; it’s then that his desire to get the job over and done with simultaneously vanishes, along with his need to get _ more _ ; Sherlock is more or less in his initial appearance earlier: his trousers is still in place around his companion’s narrow waist; his gaze is more attentive of where his hands migrates to, and the only evidence of their session is that Sherlock now has his sleeves on the crook of his elbow; an unmistakable blank look on his face. Instantly seething with rage at the deception, he pushes the other man by the shoulder; screaming for him to get off.

 

Sherlock even has the decency to appear momentarily scandalize; only to smirk whilst narrowing his eyes; lunging for John’s worn out neck once more, and clawing at his clothes with desperate vigour.

 

“Stop it.” He pushes at him again, his hand numb, and twist in different angles that is not useful for the interception. “Stop this.” How can he be this strong for such a thin frame? At the third attempt, he takes Sherlock down by the leg and successfully hurling himself towards the closest door; bolting towards the staircase with Sherlock hot on his heels.

 

“WAIT!” Comes a desperate shriek. “DON’T!”

 

But John doesn’t listen, just continues dashing down the seemingly endless staircase until he reaches what he guesses is the front door.

 

“Don’t touch it!”

 

The moment his hand twists the doorknob, an eerie tremor surges along his body. He can’t get himself to release the hold for a few attempts; feeling that his entirety is seeping into the keyhole until it just...stops. He clenches his hand: palm up, and repeatedly blinking at it like it can sprout mushrooms at any moment; can the whole event just be part of his head? A memory of a young blonde girl talking to a white rabbit flashes in his mind.

 

“I told you.” Sherlock speaks from the floor, pushing his limbs closer to his body; the energy he possesses earlier appears to be running low. Why is he upset about John touching something, that he looks that upset by it? Sherlock’s meticulous, surely, but he does remember catching sight of papers scattering the floors on his way down, so he sincerely doubts that Sherlock is in anyway obsessive with the germs under John’s hand. What can the reason be? “I told you... not to.. not to touch it. I did.” His voice trembles; hands in his hair. “You weren’t supposed to touch that.”

 

“So, what? Am I going to grow another head or something?” He hazards at his reflection on the nearest shiny object that hangs on the wall. So far, everything’s in place, apart from the embarrassing flush on his cheeks, and his pupils wide. He’s the very definition of a hot mess.“Maybe gain powers? I’ve always wanted to touch the sky with my hands.”

 

Sherlock’s already crowding his space.

 

“You idiot!” He seethes, barely containing his anger. He catches bits of sadness in there too, though he’s not exactly sure why. In fact, the whole act is less of anger, and more frustration, maybe. “The single request I asked of you, and you couldn’t even follow through?!”

 

John glares back, his nostrils flaring. Who does this guy think he is? If he thinks that John’s willing to back down just because he closely resembles his dear friend (though in fairness, he highly doubts the other bloke is aware of that yet), then he has another thing coming. Sod this; no more mister nice guy. His short temper is almost always his greatest vice.

 

“Well sorry, I was too busy being  _ groped _ to take everything in. How was I supposed to know that - wait, what does this door do again?” He idly take note of the ornate swirls, and intricate patterns that makes the whole of the doorknob; there doesn’t seem to be anything that jumps out of the norm, other than the knob being definitely expensive. He experimentally reaches for the material again, only to be met without the earlier resistance; like it an ordinary door accessible for use.

 

Sherlock pinches at the bridge of his nose; brows furrowing in frustration or irritation; maybe both. He really needs to give the man an enigmatic trophy, his earlier prediction contradicting each other. This is probably the start of him losing his mind. Yeah, maybe that’s it.

 

“That door is linked towards the rest of this god forsaken flat.” He begins; distancing himself and crossing his arms. John immediately senses the separation. “Whoever touches it immediately binds their presence to this place, and the flat transforms itself to cater to the change in order to fulfill whatever the occupants desire.”

 

“So if I -”

 

“No. Whatever it is you’re thinking, shut up. Your presence enough is causing me great pains.” He sounds whiny at the proclamation. How does he know that John is just about to suggest for...he doesn’t know... a fresh brew? Well, it’s not much of a surprise, as much as it momentarily startles him. “Ugh, I need a bath.” He’s already heading towards the staircase when the doorbell rings, and a package slides into the mail slot.

 

John frowns, picking up the medium-sized cube, and shaking it by his ear.

 

“Give me that, you’ll break it.” Sherlock - by his side - swipes it from his hand. “Unhand it, I say!”

 

“Uhhh, I would if I could.” You numb-nut. “But as you can see, it’s stuck to me or something.” Flesh and everything, if you don’t realize it already.

 

“It wouldn’t have to be stuck there, had you learned your lesson the first time.” Sherlock scolds; still trying to rip the thing away from his grasp, and failing. It’s definitely stuck to his skin, one more tug and he’s sure that he’ll tear bits of flesh out too if he’s not too careful.

 

“For god’s sake, quit it!” He yanks the package away from Sherlock; sending him down to the floor; that will show him. At first he thinks that he can’t get his hands to move, but to his amusement, he can get a single hand to gravitate around the package freely within about 5, maybe 6 centimetres away?; it’s just letting go of it that proves to be the challenge. With a large sigh, he rips the careful packaging with undue haste, only to discover an archaic brooch: bejeweled by small-cut rubies that are carefully shaped to resemble a rose inside. “Wow,” He whistles at the way it sparkles at eye level. “- ain’t this the darndest thing?”

 

“Let me see that.” Sherlock squints at the object; holding it closely to his face; between his forefinger and thumb. Doesn’t he realize that John’s still not done looking at it? Wait, nevermind, he’s seeing a trend here. “This doesn’t make sense.” He mutters whilst scrutinizing the object in detail with his fingers. “Usually I just get letters in.”

 

“Thank god for me, then.” He jokes with an eyeroll. He barely realizes that he’s still eyeing the object with some sort of unidentifiable interest. The glow of it is just other-worldly, with tinges of purple actively swirling within the endless glint of the gemstone. “Otherwise you’d only be getting billings in.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, it’s not like that.” Sherlock corrects, rolling his eyes as well. “I said ‘usually’, which promises general certainty, but does not deny the fact that I do receive one from time-to-time.”

 

“Smart arse.” John mutters away from view.

 

“The question is,” Sherlock either ignores his statement, or does not hear a thing. “-  _ why _ did I receive it.”

 

“You mean, me.” John reaches for the object as well. “What the hell!?” The brooch appears to be glowing, and rising in temperature. Oh god, please don’t let this one be a bomb of some sort. He’s already gone through lifetimes of loses that the next one can probably bring him six-feet under if he’s not too careful. “You’re more of a wizard for the both of us; can’t you stop these things from reacting?” His fingers are stuck to it again, along with Sherlock’s. “And getting my hands unstuck; it would be appreciated.”

 

Sherlock startles at the assumption; cheeks flushing slightly. What? It’s not the craziest guess by his own standards.

 

“I’m...no wizard.”

 

John does a double-take.

 

“Sorry, I thought I just heard that you weren’t a wizard.” He chuckles humorlessly; comically using his free hand to mimic cleaning out his ear canals with a pinky. “Now, would you mind repeating that?”

 

“Doctor Watson,” He says carefully. “I’m not a wizard.” The tip of his shoe taps contemplatively on the floor. “I’m….” his gaze drifts down, then back to John. “- an immortal.”

 

The item is scalding their skin, and yet their hands remains. John’s mouth gapes at the confession. Wait a minute...immortal...what does he mean by that..exactly? That he’s apparently living for a long time? That he’s unable to find death? Strangely, the item burning them is somehow grounding him in a sense that he’s able to think straight, even with the barrage of questions assaulting his head.

 

“How long have you been...I mean…” Why can’t he get himself to ask  _ the _ question? “How old are -” The brooch appears to be emitting its own light from the centre, and it’s rapidly expanding. “What’s happening?” He squints, cowering from behind his free hand; the light blindingly bright. What he will do for some sort of shade to prevent him from diminishing his vision completely. “Why is the light getting bigger?”

 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock is not a picture-perfect example either; the silly nutter still attempting to see, even though his eyes are down to slits. Great. And to think he can escape from this whole thing the easy way for once. “This hasn’t happened before either.”

 

“As in?” He barely manages to grit out; he sees nothing but stark light.

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but the light’s ever-expanding glow surrounds them before the latter can get a word in.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


The next time he opens his eyes he’s standing in the middle of the forest, clad in a brown, cotton tunic that reaches up to a third of his knees. And beside him is Sherlock, in a classier attire: a purple cloak that hides most of his legs; the whole material is bind together by the brooch itself; its previous glow somewhat receding. His curls were just an inch longer, stringy coils, artfully surrounding his head.

 

It is then that the revelation finally hits him.

 

“Hey Sherlock?” The bloke hums distractedly, eyeing everything available to him (which is mostly trees, with the occasional barrel full of potatoes and vegetables with dirt on them, and an endless amount of what he hopes is rum inside crates). “Have you gone time-travelling before?”

  
  


And that’s when their eyes meet.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are presented with their first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in Sherlock's POV. Enjoy!

**II**

  
  
  
  


“Dull.” He points out  - there is no such thing as time traveling, even when with a generous amount of time to polish the many facets of his observational skills. John Watson’s eyes widens; his breathing stutters; why does the idea surprise him? “Time is a continuous flow; time travel is preposterous pseudo-science that defies the law of physics, along with the belief of reversing the rotation of the sun would somehow repeat the day all the same; like I said, dull.” He sets off to snatch a potato that has fallen from a barrel, and smoothing at its earthy outer edges with his thumb. It has a unique feel to it, he can give it that much; though he fancies foreign textures more than rough ones likes these. “And this is hardly time travel; potatoes weren’t favoured around this time, nor have they been anything close to this size.”

 

His companion merely regards him with squinty eyes during his prose; something he said?

 

“Sorry, did you just say that the sun rotates around the earth?” The bloke adopts the tone of reticence, along with just a hint of actual confusion. Why? It’s a perfectly accurate fact, is it not? Either way, it’s safe to say that he has no qualm with being wrong in anything relating outside the stratosphere; he has little to no use for it, which therefore deserves deletion from his mind palace.

 

He swipes a finger at his philtrum with a sniff. He doesn’t take offense to the oblique response.

 

“Out of everything I said; that was the only thing you heard?” And if he’s not clear enough. “You really should consider seeing a specialist; seeing as you’re already tiptoeing on symptoms of a hearing disability.” Shut up is what he means. His skin is hot enough as it is.

 

“Only  _ you’d _ do something as ridiculous like forget that the earth revolves around the sun.” The army doctor shakes his head, chuckling to himself; a strange smile remaining right after he gets ahold of himself.  His mouth is moving, and his throat is emulating projection; John Watson counters his response, which suggests that they are talking, doesn’t it? It’s like speaking to a brick wall; a shorter one at that. See, this is why he prefers solace in his own head from time-to-time. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

He ignores him in favour of looking around; searching for any clue that might give away their location. Judging by an insurmountable amount of tall trees, lurid tapestry, and tacky imitation  shields strewn about, time traveling is an extreme exaggeration; speaking of.

 

“Time travel.” He finally states, idly noting the changes in his surroundings: the clearing to his right that leads to a large opening towards a tent, and an endless supply of rope in messy knots that ties to nearly every visible object. Behind said large tents are more tents, in different - not to mention ‘original’ - colours like: blue, yellow, green, and red. Weeds are everywhere, and empty styrofoam cups and bits of uninformative pamphlets are littering the grounds. Looks like they serve to prioritize the health and wellness of their many unfortunate customers.

 

From behind, John Watson appears to be trailing after him, and is clearly out of breath; well, he does have shorter legs after all; every now and again, he’s quite thankful for his genetic disposition; his nose, however, does need to be a bit bigger though; he fancies himself an aquiline nose. “You said time travel,” He does loathe having to repeat himself. “- why did you say that?” Anybody with a sound of mind will think to panic when they realize that they suddenly teleport to another location; a poorly constructed representation of the middle ages at that.

 

“Thanks very much for leaving me behind, you wanker.” John Watson replies instead, resting both his hand on each knee whilst gasping for breath. He doesn’t reply.

 

“Well?” He raises a challenging brow. “Out with it.” There are better things that he considers doing than talk to John Watson; sleeping for example (suffice to say, he hasn’t actually allot time in resting for ages - too many thoughts that any form of writing sadly cannot abate), maybe compose songs in his violin; anything to prevent him from having to interact with people he otherwise will never associate with in the first place if he has any form of choice; though in fairness, he  _ is _ the selective type. During these times, the only tolerable - and might he add the only energy conserving - company is down to just the skull, courtesy of a friend whom he remembers is from Nepal; well, he says friend.

 

“- do that?” John Watson’s face is beet red, and a perpetual scowl is evident on his face which suggests that he is currently attempting to get Sherlock’s attention for quite some time. Not that it’s much of a surprise; admittedly, the shorter man is slightly above average in thinking hence doctor, but from what he’s currently seen, John Watson is what one might refer to as a “big thing that come in small packages” if the constant nagging is telling enough; he does seem to be the type to carry on the act. “Listen to me goddammit!” Just now, he is realizing that his collar is yank upwards; an obvious indication of the lad’s brewing aggression. Oh how can he almost forget: the utilitarian doctor  _ does _ fancy himself a sailor. “Or I swear to god, I will knock you out cold, and leave you out here until someone discovers the body.” Not the worst of threats, but then again, he  _ has _ recently trump his second most formidable opponent, and all Jim requests for is to be a spectre to the ending of his own story.

 

“How frighteningly vivid.” He rolls his eyes the moment John Watson shoves him away, his face remaining a strong flush, and the tips of his ears as well; maybe because Sherlock remains indifferent through it all. Though, he can’t really blame him, many proclaims that he’s a heartless man with acid flowing through his veins; sometimes people do miss how frighteningly accurate they are. “Have you perhaps considered writing a novel? Your colourful vocabulary on fine print might contribute some colour to the world.”

 

John Watson growls beneath his breath; clenching and unclenching his fist, but he doesn’t punch him like Sherlock expects him to. Interesting. Wait, why is it interesting? His restraint is quite admirable though, he’ll give him that.

 

“Hello, I’m Melissa. Are you two here for the play?” Comes a foreign accent (Dutch, he believes) from behind them, dressed in plain a brown sheets with a hint of white that goes down to her knees. Her hair is a neat fishtail braid that piece together by a piece of thin cloth that is no doubt cut from the same cloth as her dress. She’s has a single earring by her left ear; are they in style for women her age? Hails from a toxic home, has an obsession with heavy cosmetics (thought there’s a strong possibility that it can be part of her part-time as a stripper), and she socializes with more men in the bar than she ever goes home. Boring.

 

“Sorry, we -”

 

“-took so long.” He interjects, bumping shoulders with his companion for the time being. He receives a side-glare in return, but there’s no oncoming interruption; surprise, surprise, this one catches on quite quickly. “We’ve been trying to locate where the tent was, and had no idea where to sign in.”

 

“Excellent!” She claps her hands excitedly (that kind of energy definitely is the very reason why he doesn’t bother socializing often with these kind of people; it’s like they’re some sort of life-leeching demons), and lead them towards the entrance booth where another female in a similar garb - though slightly less eye catching in design - is collecting names and social identification cards. “Jen will just get your name, and ID, and you’ll be given a schedule when showing happens. Oh, and please, be careful.” She theatrically whispers to them with the back of her hand touching her cheek for special effect. “Jen’s recently gone through a hard breakup; had to nurse her back and somewhat, it took a long while, but I’ve been very patient. Poor dear.” And she’s off to harass another customer.

 

“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?” John Watson inquires from beside him. They both take a place in line, behind eight people sans costume, hauling around generic suitcases from behind them; how pedestrian. His gaze drifts towards the other seat beside Jennifer, and can only guess who her co-worker for the sign-in is. “You know, since we actually don’t have IDs for entry?”

 

“Boring.” He mutters absentmindedly; and now they’re back to conversing to themselves, how lovely. Does John Watson have a mute button or something? Surely he already realizes Sherlock’s abhorrence to most conversations that does not include him in any context, or is not interesting in the least that can resort to the high-tech filtering in his head; he can fall asleep standing if he’s in the mood. “Hi, we’ve been told that this is where we would be signing in for the viewing?” He pastes on one of his charming smiles.

 

“Yes, sir.” She affirms with a single nod. “Name and identifications please.” She appears to abruptly notice the other body beside him; a delicate flush brushing at her cheeks for the mishap. Hard break-up? She looks irritatingly exuberant for someone grieving at the lost. Oh, wait, her lover is also a rich, older businessman - now it makes sense. Blown pupils and excessive fluttering of her lashes is quite telling. Physical attraction; there will never come a time where he wishes for a cartoonish anvil to drop at his head. “Will you two need couples seating? There’s a special discount for couples who attend in costume.”

 

“I’m not his date -”

 

“Actually,” He leans closer to the woman, smelling nothing but stale sweat and too much cotton candy perfume; apparently, she very recently shops at a high-end teenage store. “My colleague and I are here for personal security reasons that may require our immediate attention.” He quickly flashes her one of the badges that he’s stolen from the police for being particularly annoying. It’s a good thing that he always makes it a mission to have at least a spare one at hand on all times. “Would it be alright if you allow us in without proper identification?”

 

Jen’s deodorant vaporizes in that instant. Good, this makes his job a little easier then.

 

“Is there something going to happen?” She questions, chewing on her nails absently; my, what a fatuous habit: biting at the nail of her forefinger seductively that hints at flirtation and fear. Does she know any kind of restraint? Though in fairness, her lack of any relationship at the moment makes her susceptible to anybody who promises endless opulence, and generous gifts over three-hundred pounds. “We haven’t been told anything about any sort of police investigation.”

 

“A matter has come to light about an extremely delicate situation, and should you delay us from work any further would risk your possible raise.” He’s lying through his teeth, of course, but it’s only those who are aware of what to look for can detect the deception.

 

“Hey, how did you know about the -” She chews on her lip, looking around the perimetre to see if anybody is watching. She  _ really  _ wants that raise. He’s half-debating whether he can just throw her a few bills, and get this over cleanly and efficiently. This is why he doesn’t bother at a flatmate, they’re so appallingly inept when it comes to handling the oncoming objects that he receives. “Look, I don’t have to look at your IDs, but I will need a name for the master list if you want entry for the play.”

 

“Put it down for two under Joseph Bell, please.” He almost smirks at the haste in which she writes the name; all chicken scratch in comparison to the other ones; is she that desperate to buy another hand bag instead of prioritizing next month’s rent?; not at all surprising seeing as she’s currently single, according to the other worker.

 

“Hello, earth to Holmes. Can you really not see me?” John Watson gruffs when they are both away from earshot. 

 

“Oh, I can see you just fine.” He informs the other man and finally deciding to meet his gaze. Though when it comes to having to tolerate insistent prattles, however.

 

“Then why are you -”

 

A shriek pierces through their surprisingly small bubble coming from his left: an averagely-built woman around her twenties who appears to be clutching at her face; angry gashes of irritated skin licks at a chunk of her temple like flames. Ah, so that’s why they’re here; he’s beginning to wonder whether something will _ actually _ occur that forcibly teleports them out of the flat. Though he must admit: travelling towards something in a relation to middle ages than solving cases via London is a nice change in scenery from time-to-time.

 

“For god’s sake.” John Watson provides uselessly from his side. Without another word, he trots towards the center before Sherlock considers approaching; a man of action, then. A soldier, yes, how can he forget? 

 

When he finally decides that enough people have disperse, he makes his move towards the center; instinctively flipping his coat collar up; keeping his head low whilst he reaches the army doctor’s side. The man in question is currently clutching at the woman’s hand; her head resting droopily on her boyfriend’s lap; he speaks softly by her ear whilst stroking her hair. 

 

Ah, young love. He turns his head with a snort, eyeing the physician.

 

Without prompting, John Watson begins speaking.

 

“Well, she doesn’t seem to have an allergic reaction or anything.” He starts, eyeing her breathing, and constantly checking her pulse for any signs of further danger. “Something like this could only come from something she’s ingested; something that caused the rash.”

 

“Clearly.” One sweep over her clothing, his gaze finds the boyfriend. “Her appearance is quite distinctive; is she playing a part for the upcoming performance?”

 

“Uh, yeh.” The male answers after a moment, a hint of blush on his cheeks; why be coy? Isn’t that one of those sentimental things that come with one being in a faithful relationship, or something? “Dolly ‘ere was supposed to play a big part in the play. She’d been picked out of many auditions, see. She would’ve been so pre -”

 

“Come to the point, what drugs had she consumed for the past few hours that caused her to be in this state?” Inane chatter is irrelevant to the process; does nobody watch those appallingly predictable murder cases? Beauty in itself is a paradox; a distribution of value and emotion towards people, inanimate objects, animals, and places; the very essence of beauty is subjective.

 

“Drugs?” John Watson chirps in surprise; checking her pupils as per instruction, and gasps at the sight of her pupils; eyeing him reverently. He turns his head away; he prefers not melt just by the attention alone. If the clueless doctor is amenable. “But what about the rash?”

 

“Dolly ain’t the type to be a druggy, she’s -”

 

“Answer my question, or do you deem yourself a necrophiliac?”

 

Silence creeps at every corner, even John Watson appears momentarily frozen. As always, people are talking; they do little else.

 

“Who  _ is _ that guy?”

 

How can something like a skin rash and a sedative drug be introduced to someone’s system?

 

“Who does he think he is?” Comes another.

 

There are a few cases that he can think of, but what? Aerosol dispersal? Syringe? Pain medication along with some sort of irritant? The main cause most likely being a poisonous plant (ivy? oak? sumac?), seeing as her reaction to it is mitigated, which means that the concoction isn’t strong enough concentration to kill (he really must remember to post an entry on his website on how to properly use poison in different concentrations when mixed with different solvents). But why specifically target a lead actor? Obvious, some form of jealousy; a trite, but often over-looked motivator. Only question now is who can possibly want the role to the extent of attempting to kill for the part; someone with the obsession to be in the spotlight, but who?

 

“What is he anyway? Some sort of psychopath?” Very creative, that.

 

Think!

 

“How’d you reckon she got both the skin irritation and sedative?” The voice is loud enough to pierce through most of the commotion; John Watson? Why bother with having to defend him when none of this actually real, but a mere simulation? Right, he’s not aware of the mechanics just yet.

 

His attention drifts abruptly towards the body again, and catches sight of the flimsy object that’s partly hidden from the both of them; except for the boyfriend. Yes, of course! It’s through ingestion; a liquid that’s most likely water to hide both the drug and poisonous plant. Sometimes he does loathe his particular distaste for the boring ones; his lack of motivation and impatience for them is quite stagnating. He’s missing a vital information that he’s sure he’s seen some time during this trip altogether, but what?

 

“Holmes?” The call is somehow grounding his connection to this case, and prevents him from straying too much from the singular details that is either irrelevant, or just inane; the sound quietly fizzing on the back of his head; oddly comforting like a balm to soothe _ something _ .

 

“Had she been drinking this?” He snatches the ruddy material, and waves it at the boyfriend’s face. These people are too slow; how can they not see? It’s already waving at their faces, and they don’t even realize it.

 

“Yeh, she -” He swallows, paling. Apprehension? Why? “She had it by her before it happened. I’ve been making her drink it -” Oh, that’s why. Another point for sentiment, he supposes.

 

“How did she get this?” Surely they can’t be  _ this _ stupid. 

 

“We have a cooler; around the back -”

 

“Don’t make her drink any more of that water.” He instructs firmly; turning his body south; judging by the ratio of people heading from that direction holding water bottles with the similar design.

 

He immediately jets towards the appointed location, whilst ignoring the voices that are growing restless by the second. His mind is constantly whirring; going a mile a minute. The cooler. He needs to find the cooler.

 

“Move!” He doesn’t bother at the nicety; pushing the larger, burly man - who is currently adding more water bottles - to the side. “Oi! Watch it!”

 

“How often do you restock?” 

 

“An’ why should I tell you tha -”

 

“Sorry, sir.” John Watson interrupts, side-eyeing Sherlock for a brief second, before smiling. “Joseph here has had the worst case of jet lag, and he’s just trying to make sure that these things are safe to drink.” His demeanor exudes nothing but cordial respect. “Isn’t that right, Sh - Joseph?” He playfully nudges at his side; something that he’s astoundingly not so repulse by.

 

He clutches at his head mournfully, and paying special attention to the small mound of dirt; he groans for special effect.

 

“Well, you better give ‘im one in case; they come from the freshest spring we’ve got.” The chunky man with a an asymmetrical beard puffs his chest proudly. “Also, tis’ been the fifth delivery of the day, I believe; you’d have to ask around, we’ve got lots of people working in today.” How can a man who’s at the peak of his time be this proud even after his fourth...no..fifth marriage? All where he cheats on every single one of them. This is one of the reasons why relationships still continue to be an enigma to Sherlock.

 

“Is there anywhere we can find this spring?” He forces weariness to his tone.

 

“Just down the road until you see the fork in the road; to your right.”

 

“Alright, thank you.” There’s a hand at his shoulder. “Come on, Joseph; let’s go see to that spring water, eh?”

 

“So, what is it about the spring?” John Watson asks when they’re at a safe distance.

 

“Obviously, seeing as people have been drinking from the same source, the foul play had been too specific, surely; else why does one of the lead actors be the only target? I can ask around, but the staff itself populates the whole of the fairgrounds; it will take too long, and will most likely cause a riot, noting the incident earlier. What better way to identify its source than from the spring itself?”

 

“Brilliant.” John Watson quips in awe. “And what about the inflammation?”

 

He staggers for a quick second, before brushing off the incident with a sniff.

 

“It’s easy enough if people know where to look.” He can’t get himself to make eye contact for some strange reason. Any form of flattery is not suppose to have adverse affects on him; even at such a simple enough observation.“And surely you’ve heard of plant toxins? Poison Ivy, Oak, and Sumac?”

 

“Er, yeah; plant toxins, how could I have not seen that?” He scratches at his temple. Well, he really doesn’t have the right to be offended by the fact; most people take pride in following others; autonomy is arrogance in the modern world. “Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock confesses, smirking when John Watson huffs; clearly taking offense; the latter mutters a small ‘arsehole’ underneath his breath. “We make a right here.”

 

And they’re met with an endlessly long stream.

 

“You’re to take one side.” He instructs before heading left. “See if you find anything.”

 

He takes in every inch of his surrounding during his exploration. Ten minutes in, and he deems his search fruitless, however, a particular glint catches his eyes. Crouching to the ground, he realizes that it’s an earring partly swimming on cake of mud; there’s only one source where he’s seen this type of earring before. Oh. Right. Stupid, stupid. It’s her.

 

The moment he turns his attention towards the sound of rushing footsteps, he finds himself down on the ground by the woman who was welcoming them earlier (Maria? Melany? Becky?); hands at his throat; Well, what do you know; no wonder she lost an earring.

 

“Looking for something?” He smirks from beneath her; his heart beating at a modest rate. She has no idea what she’s dealing with. But then again, nobody really does. “How long did it take you to plan all this out? Sad that you haven’t been chosen? You’ve always been picked last most of your life; why choose this time to finally attempt retaliation?”

 

“That role is made for  _ me _ !” She shrieks, her nails digging onto his skin; enough to draw a bit of blood. Within seconds, his limbs begins to numb; oh, of course she dips her hands on a couple of sedatives. “Anna had no right to just take it away. Out of both of us, I’ve always been the better actor; she’s just a pretty face; she doesn’t even understand that this role is my only shot to fame!” Hardly anything worth taking a glance at; it’s a medieval fair; does she think some sort of CEO from a big acting production would be lurking about here, of all places? A possibility, but it can hardly amount to no more than two, maybe three percent chances; not when there are clearly better actors attending.

 

“So you just chose to poison her? Then add a drug in?” He snorts, chuckling to himself. No wonder the effects are menial, and is easily reversible within a span of a day’s rest; she has very little knowledge about water-to-poison ratio. “How pedestrian.”

 

“You wouldn’t understand.” She then starts crying. He can consider offering feign sympathy, but he doubts he can keep up the act for too long; not when he’s dealing with the actual the murderer - minus ten points for actually failing to do so. “She always gets the roles even when I rehearse the lines longer than her, always.” She drags him by the cloak; touching the brooch on the way, and plunging his head onto the stream. What is this? Some poorly constructed murder attempt?

 

The first thing he notes is the air escaping his lungs. Thanks to the sedative, his mouth remains open, hence water rapidly filling his mouth; his ears; his nose. He isn’t immerse for very long, however, seeing as his head resurfaces with John Watson screaming his name; apprehension instilling in his eyes; why? He  _ has _ seen action in his life, hasn’t he? John Watson was a soldier; he’s seen more than enough of the battlefield than most, why does he emulate a grieving man?

 

“Holmes, are you okay?” He taps at Sherlock’s cheek, bringing him away from his daze. He’s leaning towards the army doctor; one of his arms thrown around the man for leverage; he buckles slightly due to having put weight on his feet too soon. His transport does love to play games. “Easy does it.”

 

“The woman from the entrance, she - she was the one who - who -” Dear god, why does his mouth refuse to cooperate? He might as well become mute if it will save him from further humiliation.

 

“I know.” John Watson replies with a ghost of a smile; might as well not be there in the first place. His eyes, however, is  morose. His stomach feels queasy at the sight; or it can be due to the drug, most likely. “Got some officials to look into it when I saw some odd red leaves - poison sumac, apparently, and she broke down and confessed.” The lad’s eyes drifts down, and stays there for a few moments; contemplative. “Any chance you know how to get back to the flat?”

 

And he is safe from having to provide an explanation by an immediate glow coming from the brooch; finds themselves back inside Baker Street; in the exact position they left prior. The brooch has all but lost all it’s glow, and transitions to a black imitation rose instead. 

 

As far as he knows, he thinks it’s the time to coin the ‘home sweet home’ saying. He can never really predict why the surge of sentiment rushes through him, but it’s what he feels. A gentle brush of warmth, and familiarity that is tangible, and welcoming in all the right ways. Ugh, John Watson is literally poisoning him with his ugly jumpers, and loose-fit jeans. What is it about this man that both infuriates him whilst at the same time warming gaps in areas of his solitary life? He’s not quite sure whether to be wary, or accept the feeling. There’s an inkling inside his subconscious that’s screaming at him to turn back, and kick John Watson out of his life; holding regard for another breakable being is a lost cause, and he’s not up for taking chances where he sees defeat. Sentiment, after all, is a chemical defect found on the losing side. It’s what he lives by, and nothing else.

 

“Look like th’ innocent flower; but be the serpent under’t.” He quotes idly with a smile, pocketing the rose onto his coat for later storing. Now where shall he put it?

 

“Poetic.” His companion states dryly. “Listen, is there any way I could possibly unbind my presence to the flat?”

 

“You have to distance yourself from this location for about a month.” He replies after a moment; heart pausing a beat. There’s some sort of distinct ringing in his ear, and his breathing transitions from neutral to shallow, seconds apart. He sighs shortly in an attempt to get himself back in check, but deems fruitless when he feels his innards clench and twist uncomfortably without his permission. “Other than that; no harm done. You can go back to searching for available accommodations as you initially had done prior.” The words themselves feel toxic; John Watson, what have you done?!

 

He heads up the staircase without having to look back. So, that’s it, then, there’s no rewind button that’s available at will; which is ludicrous, because ‘being back’ means that he has to work alone again, and having only the skull to chat with. All he saw is a glimpse of what his life can potentially be, and it’s gone in an instant. Don’t get him wrong; talking with the skull is all fine and good, but having another being to bounce ideas off of is a slight improvement than to be met with prominent silence. In fact, John Watson contributes to his practice, and praises him for it even after he behaves, so isn’t too bad of a company to possibly keep; apart from the relentless chatter.

 

“Wait.” He says, just when the door to the flat is already shut. Sherlock zips down the staircase, and yanking the door with considerable force than necessary. He has the sudden urge to punch something, but slamming the door is cathartic enough. For now, at least. 

 

John Watson jumps from the spot where he stands (no doubt waiting for a cab), regarding Sherlock with wide, hopeful eyes; another first; most people consider his attention a death sentence. “The reason why you stated time travel.” He asks instead; ignoring the sad slouch that the doctor adapts to right after.

 

“You git, I knew you weren’t listening.” He chuckles sadly; he doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes as he speaks. “I - The reason why I guessed that, was because…um..” His cheeks are as bright as strawberries.

 

“Out with it man!” The suspense is killing him.

 

“Well, you said that you were an immortal…” Yesssss? “I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’m a….time traveler?”

 

His grounding shakes in that one second; his pulse picking up. A time traveler; no wonder nothing adds up in his previous deductions, which is why he initially plans to invite the bloke to his flat to possibly draw the answer out from the shorter man somehow. The groping is something of a wild guess; noting how John Watson’s pupils dilates after the manhandling to get him into the flat. Fortunately, the good doctor has an attention span of a goldfish to bear any lasting resentment for the remainder of the trip.

 

Sherlock releases a breath. Time traveler. John Watson is a time traveler.

 

“Oh.”

  
  


“Yeah.” John massages at his neck, craning his attention towards the busy streets.

  
  


“Oh.”

  
  


“You just said that.”

  
  


“I’m Sherlock Holmes” By god, he must be losing his mind if it takes him no less than a minute to come to a complete decision. He offers his hand to the space in front of him. Formality. He must stick to formality. Else, he will surely lose his sanity by having to think too much about the perennial questions that’s starting to accumulate in his head. “I heard you were interested in looking into the available room upstairs?”

 

“Not really.” Embarrassment burns his cheeks. Is he mistaken by the assumption? “Because from what I’ve been told; I practically own it already.” John Watson beams back at him; taking the hand nonetheless and giving it a proper shake. “John Watson, but you know that already.”

 

“Obvious.” He can’t help but roll his eyes. The action is less scathing for some reason. “Do come in, you’re letting the cold in.”

 

The latter chuckles, shaking his head whilst he approaches, and stopping on the first step (of three) to the door.

 

“On one condition.” The practitioner proposes; posture straightening. He straightens himself as well. “We refer to each other by our first names.”

 

Sherlock shrugs; it’s not exactly  _ that  _ hard of a challenge. Plus, being known by his surname hits too close to home; a long history of failures that he prefers to remain buried and forgotten. 

 

John Watson’s re-emergence takes him by surprise, but it seems the man’s previous suspicion is momentarily unimportant; he can even go so far as to guess that his companion thinks that Sherlock is some type of entity who is alike to his previous Holmes in mostly everything (from his mannerisms to the way he dresses, the way his prose flows), but do not share the same memories. As long as John Watson remains ignorant to the truth, the better; he will stop at nothing to keep it that way.

 

“I commonly go by it anyway.” At least in this timeline, he confesses with a sniff. He eyes his right; observing nothing in particular. “Now aren’t you going to go in, or not?” He’s literally trembling in nothing but barefeet, a loose-fitting dressing gown, an old shirt, and sweatpants; the cloak is a nice change though; it flows elegantly in the wind quite well; maybe he can get one for one of those holiday things that requires a costume.

 

“I’m coming you wanker.” says his companion, marching inside.

  
  


And with that, the door to 221B finally closes, and Sherlock can finally relish the bath that he’s craving ever since their involuntary trip to a strange arrangement of a medieval fair. It’s not even worth a 3. Boring.

  
  
  
  


-END (?)-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? :)!
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**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Also, as the tags say, this work is part of the series, and will have more parts. Hopefully you like these characters well enough that you stay for the rest of the series. Thank you for reading, I hope you have a nice summer. Toodles.


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